“Yes; it’s full of wrinkles, don’t you see; like the face of Mrs. Paynter, an’ you say she’s old-fashioned.”
“Aunt Alice,” said Toddie, “birch-trees izh de only kind dat wearzsh Sunday clothes, ain’t dey? Deyzh always all in white, like me and Budgie, when we goes to Sunday-school. Gwacious!” he exclaimed, as he leaned against one of the birches and examined its outer garments. “Deyzh Sunday trees awful; dish one is singin’ a song! Dzust come—hark!”
Though somewhat startled at the range of Toddie’s imagination, and wondering what incentive it had on the present occasion, Mrs. Burton approached the tree, and solved the mystery by hearing the breeze sighing softly through the branches. She told Toddie what caused the sound, and the child replied:
“Den it’s de Lord come down to sing in it, ’cauzh it’s got Sunday clothes on. Datsh it, izhn’t it?”
“Oh, no, Toddie; the wind is only the wind.”
“Why I always fought it wazh the Lord a-talkin’, when the wind blowed. I guesh somebody tolded me so, ’cauzh I fought dat before I had many uvver finks.”
Up the mountain-road leisurely sauntered Mrs. Burton, while her nephews examined every large stone, boulder tree and hole in the ground en route.
The top of the hill was gained at last and with a long-drawn “Oh!” both boys sat down and gazed in delight at the extended scene before them. Budge broke the silence by asking:
“Aunt Alice, don’t you s’pose dear brother Phillie, up in heaven, is lookin’ at all these towns, an’ hills, an’ rivers, an’ things, just like we are?”
“Very likely, dear.”